


hold onto this lullaby

by silvergalaxy



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 00:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10204193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvergalaxy/pseuds/silvergalaxy
Summary: Simon feels like he’sburning. He can barely breathe, his throat feels like sandpaper, and his head is pounding. He has never felt this miserable, like, ever. Not counting that time he was buried six feet under and came out on the other side as a vampire. But, who's counting?





	

**Author's Note:**

> ***makes up stuff about vampire's immune systems in the name of h/c fic***

* * *

Simon was totally under the impression that vampires couldn’t actually get sick, considering the fact that they’re already freakin’ dead. He means, c’mon, you never see a vampire with a fever in the movies. That’s why, in an act of friendship, he agreed to help Clary while she combed New York City for some Shadowhunter relic in the pouring rain. He’s a good dude, and there’s no chance of him getting sick, so why the hell not?

They don’t find it - Simon isn’t really sure he completely understood what they were actually looking for in the first place - and when he returns to the hotel in the early morning, just before the sun begins to climb into the sky, he’s soaking wet. Simon’s felt a lot of pretty gross things in his eighteen years, but water sloshing around his boots and squishing between his toes has got to be near the top of the list. He is peeling his dripping socks from his feet as quietly as possible so as to not disturb anyone who may have already fallen asleep, when he hears a creak from down the hall. 

He is, like, 100% certain that it’s Raphael trying to be his jerk self and sneak up on Simon. Probably to prove a point about Simon’s lack of perception and then grumble something along the lines of: _You’re going to get yourself killed, fledgling_. 

Well, _hah_. Simon is going to give Raphael a taste of his own bitter medicine. Things have been a little awkward between the two of them since last week, when Simon accidentally, sort of, maybe kissed Raphael. Not on purpose, god, no. He doesn’t have a death wish, okay? Besides, it was basically just a quick peck on the corner of his lips. His soft, kissable - okay. _Okay_. So maybe he wouldn’t have turned down a kiss from his newfound friend, but he swears it wasn’t intentional. 

What really happened was that he and Raphael were in the middle of a training session. Because Simon is apparently miserably awful at engaging in any type of physical combat, Raphael had taken it upon himself as the clan leader to bring Simon up to par. Except sparring with Raphael is simultaneously terrifyingly scary and terrifyingly hot. Due to this lethal combination, Simon found himself experiencing flashes of panic during their session, which eventually lead to him losing control of his vampire speed and crashing into Raphael violently, bringing them both unexpectedly to the ground, with Simon’s lips pressed firmly to the soft skin of Raphael’s face. 

They had lay there, frozen, with Simon straddling Raphael’s waist, the warmth of Raphael’s body solid underneath him. Their faces mere inches apart, breath mingling in their shared space where their noses could almost brush. From that close, Simon could see the flecks of amber in Raphael’s deep brown eyes, could count the eyelashes that fan his cheeks as he blinks. Well, hypothetically of course. Raphael didn’t actually let him stay on his lap long enough to do any eyelash counting, and before he knew it, Simon was thrown unceremoniously onto the hard ground, and Raphael had speedily evacuated the premises. 

Ever since that seemingly catalytic moment, Raphael had stubbornly avoided making eye contact with him, and reverted back to their previous method of communication; avoidance peppered with the occasional demand. Sometimes, when he thinks Simon isn’t paying attention, Raphael lets his gaze linger, body motionless as he observes Simon from afar. 

Whatever, Simon is going to make this better. It’s just a minor freakout over an almost kiss, and nothing cures misunderstandings better than a pulling a harmless scare prank on the head of your local vampire clan. Probably. Simon hopes.

Anyways, it has to be Raphael slowly walking down the hallway towards the main entrance. No one else in this place is crazy enough to creep around at such a glacial pace just to try and scare a fledgling like Simon. He chuckles inwardly as he imagines the look of shock on Raphael’s face when Simon flips his plan around and scares him instead. Oh, how the tables will turn. 

Except, when the vibrations from the footsteps have diminished and Simon jumps dramatically in front of Raphael, his intended battle cry comes out as an obnoxiously loud and incredibly disgusting sneeze.

“Boo?” Simon says hesitantly, grimacing as he dares to meet Raphael’s stare. Raphael is standing in front of him, looking deadly calm, with Simon’s snot on his jacket. 

“I’m quaking, fledgling,” Raphael deadpans, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to Simon. Who _is_ this guy?

“Thanks,” Simon mumbles, mostly embarrassed, and a little nervous about what Raphael is going to say about yet another one of his fancy suits being ruined by Simon and his genius plans. Surprisingly, he skips over the state of his navy blue blazer in favour of questioning Simon’s whereabouts.

“So,” Raphael begins, shrugging his arms out of his sleeves and tossing the dirty jacket towards the open door of the laundry room. “Why exactly were you roaming around the city until nearly sunrise? In the rain, no less.”

“Just helping Clary,” Simon shrugs, tentatively wiping his nose on the satin fabric Raphael had handed him. Why are these things designed so nicely, anyways? They’re literally made to get dirty. Simon makes a mental note to ask Raphael about it later, when he no longer has murder in his eyes and fire in his voice. “She was looking for something.”

“Looking for what, Simon.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. It looked kind of like a sconce, but I feel like it was probably before Ikea’s time.”

“Right,” says Raphael, and Simon thinks he’s just saying that because he’s probably too embarrassed to ask what Ikea is. He’ll take his victories where he can get them. “So you jeopardized your health and safety to help the Shadowhunters find a candlestick.”

Simon huffs, throwing his hands upward. “I wasn’t jeopardizing anything. The city is safer than it’s been in years, and you know it. Look, the sun is barely on the horizon. It’s fine, I’m fine.”

“It’s been pouring rain for _hours_ , are you that oblivious to your surroundings? You know how important it is to stay in good health, you never know when the clan is going to come under attack and it’s important that every member is in good enough shape to hold their own,” Raphael hisses, rolling his eyes like Simon is being the ridiculous one here. 

“In case you forgot, we are _vampires_. Vampires don’t catch the flu from a couple of raindrops,” Simon corrects him in a condescending tone. He raises an eyebrow, challenges Raphael to argue back. This is the most conversation they’ve had in over a week, and Simon misses being in Raphael’s presence. He’s gonna draw out this interaction as long as possible if it means the two of them get to keep talking. 

“In case _you_ forgot, you’re a _fledgling_ , and fledglings can still be affected by human sickness for years after turning,” Raphael cuts in, tilting his head to the side, as if to say _Who’s stupid now?_

“Okay, but I feel fine,” counters Simon, stepping forward in an attempt to move out of the foyer. Raphael grabs his arm and pushes him firmly back to where he was standing. 

“Oh? Is that not your mucus all over my jacket?”

“One sneeze means nothing. You’re overreacting,” Simon argues, crossing his arms. Their voices are low, whispers so quiet that they’re standing toe to toe in the dim light of the hall. 

“You keep on telling yourself that, Simon.” The way Raphael says Simon’s name is soft, tender in contrast to the way they’ve been hissing at each other for the past few minutes. “Go to sleep, it’s getting late.” And with that, Raphael pads quietly down the hall. Simon remains standing in the entrance for a moment, watching Raphael’s silhouette shrink as he moves farther and farther away.

* * *

Simon feels like he’s _burning_. He can barely breathe, his throat feels like sandpaper, and his head is pounding. He has never felt this miserable, like, ever. Not counting that time he was buried six feet under and came out on the other side as a vampire. But, who's counting?

He groans, flipping over in his bed. Damn Raphael and his vampire knowledge. Damn the Ikea sconce. Simon is gonna die alone in the dark, wearing a Star Wars t-shirt and pink boxers. He momentarily flicks on his phone to look at the time. It’s half past eight, which means he’s barely been home for two hours, and he already feels this disgusting.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, there’s an uncomfortable mixture of sweat and tears coating his cheeks, and a strong hand on his chest as he gasps for air, writhing beneath the too hot covers as he tries to escape their confines. 

“Hey, hey, calm down,” a quiet voice comes from his right, but he can barely hear it over the hoarse wails that rip from his throat. He can’t- 

_A flash of red. Hands trailing over his chest, sharp nails pricking his skin as they scrape, and he can feel his blood oozing from the wound on his neck, dripping down onto his clothes, unrelenting. His shirt clings to his back, drenched in sweat and blood, and a shrill voice is whispering in his ear, hissing threats and promising that he’s gonna die, he’s going to **die** , and he can’t breathe_ \- 

“Simon,” soothes the voice, “You’re fine, I promise, you’re fine.” But Simon _isn’t_ fine, not at all. “It’s just me, it’s Raphael.” But that can’t be true, because Simon came to the hotel looking for Raphael, and he wasn’t here, and now Simon is being drained of his blood, to weak to do anything but weakly thrash around in an attempt to throw off Camille. 

The hand presses down on his chest again, attempting to still his movements, and Simon is delirious with panic.

“No,” he moans, squirming with terror. He wants the pressure off, off, _off_. Scrabbling for purchase, he digs his fingers into the hand holding him down, trying to sink backwards to get away from it. 

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” he shrieks, eyes squeezed shut. The pressure immediately disappears, and Simon scoots until his back is flush with the oak headboard. He fumbles for the collar of his shirt, struggling to pull it over his head, it’s damp with his _blood and_ \- 

“Get it off of me,” Simon pleads, not sure where he is or who he’s with, just knows that he’s covered in his own blood and _dying_. “Too much blood,” he gasps once the shirt is off, and grabs at his neck, searching desperately for the wound to stop the bleeding.

“There’s no blood, Simon. You’re safe, it’s just me and you, remember? You’re at home, no one’s gonna hurt you here, baby.”

 _Baby_. That - that’s what Raphael calls him, Simon remembers in his hysteria. He’s gasping for air, hiccuping sobs crawling from his throat, but he dares to open his eyes. He’s shocked to find himself in the darkness of his bedroom instead of splayed out on Camille’s couch, and his confusion only rises when he notices Raphael hovering over him, hands hesitantly fluttering inches away from Simon’s skin, eyes alight with concern. 

“I,” Simon begins to say, before promptly leaning over the side of the bed and vomiting. Raphael surprisingly doesn’t look angry, just produces another handkerchief seemingly out of nowhere, offering it wordlessly to Simon. 

Simon desperately wants to make some witty comment about the stupidity of handkerchiefs and Raphael refusing to join the twenty first century, but all he can think of is how the piece of fabric is the same awful shade of red as Camille’s nails, the same horrifying shade of red as his blood. So instead, he lets out another sob, only this time he’s cognizant enough to be embarrassed about it. 

He buries his face into his shaking hands, mortified about being this vulnerable in front of Raphael, but scared enough that he couldn’t stop himself. He flinches when he feels a light touch to his shoulder, eyes darting nervously up to reassure himself that he’s still safe in his bedroom. Raphael’s face looks kind, thoughtful, and in the quiet of the room he could almost be a different person. 

“Can I put my hand here?” He asks, voice quiet. Simon nods, craving the comfort of touch, needing something solid to ground him here, to this moment. Raphael’s hand settles steadily on his shoulder, fingers spread wide so that they’re splayed across Simon’s collarbone. Raphael massages small patterns into the dampness of Simon’s skin, which Simon now realizes is from his feverish sweating, and not from blood as he had believed when he was still living in his nightmare. 

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes, the only noises being Simon’s laboured breaths, the occasional wet hiccup escaping his lips. Raphael is sturdy beside him, his fingers never stopping their comforting presses against Simon’s skin. Eventually, Raphael speaks up.

“The nightmares don’t last forever,” he murmurs, turning his head so that he’s looking straight into Simon’s bloodshot eyes. 

“Good,” Simon replies, can’t muster enough strength to say much more. He feels the warmth radiating from Raphael’s body, and is suddenly cold, shivering in the aftermath of his terror. Without thinking, he leans in so that his side is pressed up against Raphael’s, his head tucked into the crook of Raphael’s neck. He clams up once he’s realized what he’s done, expecting Raphael to shrug him off. Instead, Raphael simply lifts his arm, moving it so that it’s resting on Simon’s other shoulder, and allows him to move closer into his embrace.

Simon isn’t sure how long they stay there like that, but the unnecessary movement of Raphael’s chest as he intentionally breathes in out provides reassurement and soothes Simon’s frantic thoughts. 

Eventually, Raphael shifts underneath him, and Simon braces himself for the reality of trying to fall back asleep on his own.

“C’mon,” Raphael murmurs. “Let’s go.”

“What?” Simon says, voice muffled from where his mouth his smushed against Raphael’s chest. “Where’re we goin’?”

“My room,” Raphael tells him, like it’s supposed to be obvious. Is Simon still dreaming?

“Huh? Why?” Simon asks, struggling to comprehend what’s going on. Gently, Raphael takes him by his underarms and hoists him up into a sitting position. 

“I know you can’t exactly smell right now because you’re sick and all,” Raphael begins, “But I’m not staying in here all night with your vomit on the floor.”

“Well, what are we gonna do with it?” Simon huffs, still not really grasping the situation. Raphael continues to rearrange him until he’s sitting on the foot of the bed, feet dangling above the cold floor.

“I’m gonna get someone to clean it up,” Raphael tells him absentmindedly, glancing around the room until he seemingly gives up searching for whatever he was looking for. “You’re coming with me, Simon.”

Well, who is Simon to argue with that?

 

Except when he goes to stand up, he isn’t anticipating his legs to buckle beneath him like jelly. He’s preparing himself for a hard fall against the floor when a pair of arms reach out and catch him just in time.

“Always a damsel in distress,” Raphael huffs, but when Simon looks at him, his eyes are fond and there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Raphael’s hands are firm against Simon’s body, making a home on his waist like they belong there. Simon leans heavily into Raphael’s side, fists clutching the back of his shirt as they walk down the dark hallway until they reach the door to Raphael’s room. Raphael momentarily lifts a hand from Simon’s side to open the door, and Simon feels the absence like a blow to the heart. As if he was falling apart, and the wide berth of Raphael’s palm was the only thing holding him together.

It’s even darker in the room, but Raphael effortlessly leads Simon to his bed, helping him sit up against a mountain of pillows. He leaves Simon’s side for a moment, crossing the room to fumble around in a couple of drawers before returning with something in each hand.

“Do you want a crewneck or a tank?” Raphael asks, lifting each hand as he mentioned what he was holding. It’s at this point that Simon realizes he’s been in just his boxers this entire time, and he feels a furious blush rise on his face. 

“Simon?” Raphael prompts when Simon just stares at him in lieu of responding. “Are you alright, baby?”

Like being called _that_ is gonna make his blush disappear.

“Yeah,” Simon chokes out. “Fine. A little cold. I’ll take the sweater, thanks.”

“Sure,” Raphael agrees easily, dropping the short sleeve shirt onto the ground and scrunching up the sweater to make the neck easier for Simon to find and put his head through. Unconsciously, Simon spreads his thighs open, allowing Raphael to move forward on his knees between them, lifting up the sweater to slide it over Simon’s head. Simon shoves his arms through the arm holes, delighting in the softness of the fabric. 

He smiles tentatively, blinking up at Raphael from where he’s poised above him. Raphael’s gaze is unwavering, his eyes imploring and kind and mad and alive all at once. 

Silently, Raphael situates himself on the other side of Simon, their arms brushing as Raphael pulls the covers over the two of them. Simon stares straight ahead, eyes focused on the heavy velvet canopy draping over Raphael’s four-poster bed. It’s red.

“Raphael,” he whispers, scrunching his eyes closed and hoping. Hoping - for what? Simon isn’t quite sure.

He feels the gentle pull of Raphael’s hand, follows it blindly, moving closer to the safety his presence provides. No longer afraid of rejection, Simon lets his head rest on the swell of his chest, and lets the unfaltering rhythm of Raphael’s superfluous breathing lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was mostly self indulgent, since i myself am at home with a fever lol. it also seems to be a reoccurring theme in my fic that simon gets wet???
> 
> for more saphael, feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](http://softsimon.tumblr.com)!!


End file.
